


Sidekick

by glowstick_of_destiny



Category: Gotham (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-16
Updated: 2016-01-16
Packaged: 2018-05-14 06:17:15
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 1,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5732491
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glowstick_of_destiny/pseuds/glowstick_of_destiny
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim barreled into Harvey's life like some action flick hero with a flamethrower chasing the bad guy into a library, with about as many shits to give about collateral damage. It's only fair Harvey gets a chance to return the favor.</p><p>Or: the one where there's a dog.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> My first work for Harvey/Jim. Going to be multiple chapters (even though it says 1/1).

"Ever heard of a phone?" Jim says to the bit of Harvey's face he can see through the two inches his door will open with the chain on. "Or waiting til the fucking morning?" 

"I can explain," Harvey says. "Just let me in, okay?" 

Jim squeezes his eyes shut. It's three in the morning on what was gonna be his day off. But he opens the door. 

Jim's gaze catches on the dark circles under Harvey's eyes as he steps into the light of his studio apartment. And then moves to the large black trash bag and only slightly smaller brown pit bull following Harvey in. The trash bag bulges suspiciously, and when Harvey sets it down, it leans dangerously to the right like a guy who's had one too many. The dog makes a beeline for Jim, sniffs his pajama pant leg for a few seconds. Then, apparently satisfied with this investigative measure, takes a few steps back, lays down, and looks up at him expectantly. 

Jim pinches the bridge of his nose. "Harvey--" 

"Don't freak out," Harvey says, putting his hands up placatingly. "It's not like there's a body in there or anything--" 

Jim breathes out slowly through his nose. Which doesn't help. "Why is there a dog in my apartment?" 

"Oh, Fitzwilliam?" The dog sits up, fixes its eyes on Harvey. Harvey turns, flaps his hand at the dog. "Yeah, we're talking about you, buddy. But just sit tight." And then, eyes back on Jim, "See, here's the thing. Ain't nowhere else he can stay right now--" 

Jim crosses him arms. Pointedly doesn't look at the dog or his huge, hopeful eyes. "Since when did you start taking in stray dogs?" 

"I didn't-- you think I'd find a dog on the street and name him Fitzwilliam? It's like you don't know me at all." Hard to say if it's the warning he sees in Jim's eyes or actual concern for the dog that gets Harvey to put a serious face back on. "Truth is, friend of mine had to skip town. Real short notice, no time to figure out how to take this guy with her. Broke her damn heart. And a pit bull? No one's gonna take him home if we leave him at the shelter, so--" 

"So you want me to take him." 

"Look, I'd take him if I could. Thing about my landlord is, I can't be late with rent again _and_ suddenly have a dog tearing up the place, it's kind of a one or the other deal--" 

" _Again_ \-- are you-- do you need help? Do you want me to--" 

"Christ, no. I don't want your fucking money. And this ain't about me, anyway-- I just need to find someone who can take the fucking dog, okay?" 

Fitzwilliam puts his paws over his face and whines. 

"Look, I want to help, but I don't have the shit you need to take care of a dog-- hell, I don't even have anything he can eat." 

A slow grin spread across Harvey's face, like when he knows something he gonna use to pin a suspect to the wall, only it's the few seconds before he's told them that. Which is about when Jim realizes he's in serious trouble. 

"See, actually you do," Harvey says. He unties the trash bag and starts digs around in it. "Let's see-- we've got enough dog food to last til Armageddon," he says, plunking two hefty bags of kibble on the linoleum tile before continuing to root around in the bag. "A bowl, a leash--" both tossed unceremoniously onto Jim's floor, "a collar-- careful with the studs-- a sweater--" 

"A sweater?" Jim asks, raising an eyebrow. 

"Ooh, two sweaters. And a squeaky toy! You're fucking set." Harvey's grin disappears when he looks back up at Jim, sees the hard set of his jaw. The resulting pang of guilt has no right to be there, in Jim's stomach, so he ignores it. 

"Look," says Harvey, "I just need someone to watch him for the weekend. Two days. I know a guy who knows a guy, and I'll figure it out, but I just need a bit more time. Okay?" 

Fitzwilliam's looking straight at Jim. His eyes are so goddamn big. 

Harvey's looking at him all hopeful, too. And it's two against one and not any kind of fair. 

"Fine," he grits out. "But just for the weekend." 

Harvey smiles like he's just gotten a week of paid vacation. 


	2. Chapter 2

Harvey knocks. And then he waits. Wonders where all the air in the dim hallway of Jim's walkup's gone, 'cause he's feeling like he can't get enough with each gulp of it. He shifts the six pack to his left hand, and back to his right. And then back to the left. And then nearly drops the damn thing when he hears the pounding of feet behind the door getting louder. About four, by his count. And then another set of feet and a voice that's definitely Jim's saying, "Fitz! Which one of us has opposable thumbs?" A pause, and he thinks he can hear Fitzwilliam whine. "Yeah, that's right. So if you wanna see who's there, you gotta move." 

There's no time to squash down the warm feeling spreading through his chest, the sense that he just witnessed some part of Jim that ain't on show when he's at the precinct. 'Cause the door swings open and he's nearly tackled by Fitzwilliam. 

Which is great, actually. 'Cause all Harvey's gotta do is manage a "Hey," to Jim and then he's got license to bend down and pet the dog. Who's apparently done with tackling people for the day, but making excited circles around you, whacking you in the leg with his wagging tail, not so much. 

Only then the dog calms down and Harvey stands up and locks eyes with Jim. And Jim's got that demanding, expectant face on. The one for witnesses that don't wanna talk, the one that says he wants answers. "He's 'Fitz?' now?" Harvey says, ignoring that look entirely. "After two days?" 

There's a little crease in Jim's forehead, right between his eyebrows, before he talks. Like there's a war in his head between his inability to wait for anything and his inability to let any dig at him go without a fight. "I couldn't just keep calling him _Fitzwilliam_ ," Jim says. "Why would anyone saddle an innocent animal with that name? That's injustice, right there." Harvey snorts. "Fitz thinks so, too. Isn't that right, Fitz?" Fitz barks. Jim bends to scratch him behind the ears. "You're outnumbered." 

"You like him," Harvey says, a bit more of the tension slipping out of his shoulders. Giving Jim shit comes easy as breathing. 

"You can't afford rent," Jim says, crossing his arms, "But you can get me beer I didn't ask for?" 

"Yeah, I can, jackass." He pauses, takes a deep breath he hopes ain't too obvious. Harvey doesn't need anger fucking up his judgement in this conversation. Jim does that just fine on his own. "See, one of those things costs more than the other. And you're welcome." He shoves the six pack towards Jim. 

Jim takes it. "Any reason?" he asks. 

"I ain't a professor of economics, but I'm gonna go with because there's a lot of beer in the city, but housing, not so much--" Jim rolls his eyes. Harvey looks away, stuffs his hands in his pockets. "Thing I was pushing for to get this guy a home kinda fell through." 

"You come here to ply me with liquor so I'd take him for a little longer?" 

He looks back up. Jim's face isn't the "I expected more of you, and I'm not surprised, just disappointed" one he'd been expecting. Dreading. Jim's grinning, actually. "Depends," Harvey says. "You think that might work?" 

Jim bites his lip. Which should be a federal crime. Twenty to life, easy. "Yeah, maybe." 

Harvey swallows, slaps on a smile. Brushes past Jim into the apartment. "Great. I'll even help you finish it off, just so you're not hungover for work tomorrow." 

Jim follows Harvey in, says, "Make yourself at home," about the same time as Harvey's ass hits the couch. Turns and heads for the cabinets near the fridge, Fitz trailing him. Doesn't look up as he says, "I've got a bottle opener in here somewhere--" A pause, and the clank of several not-bottle-openers getting tossed on the counter, and then, "Always gotta push the envelope, don't you?" Harvey stills. "I know what you want." Keeps staring at the stupidly big flat screen TV like there aren't sirens going off in his head. "And it's not gonna happen." Harvey's got a white knuckle grip on the arm rest and abso-fucking-lutely nothing to say to that that ain't gonna make it worse. "This is beer, Fitz." Of course Jim was talking to the dog. "Not sure if it's as bad for dogs as chocolate, but I am not gonna find out the hard way." Of fucking course. And then, to Harvey, "There's a game on soon, if you want to watch."

Right. Sunday football. "Yeah, sure," Harvey says. Seeing as he's still recovering from a close call with a heart attack, it takes about thirty seconds for what he's agreed to to sink in. Which is about as long as it takes for the couch to dip beside him as Jim sits down. Hands Harvey a beer that he damn near spills all down his shirt because Jim's spreading his knees wide as he leans back into the couch. 

The length of a football game, plus some. That's how long he's gonna be stuck on this couch, stuck with Jim's right knee less than half a foot from his own. Harvey looks down at his beer, wishes it was something a lot harder. Notices Fitz is laying on the floor at Jim's feet, apparently resigned to the fact that he'll never taste beer. 

Jim takes a pull from his beer, looks at his watch. "Game's not on for another fifteen. I mean, at this point, it's gonna take an act of God for them to make the playoffs. But the next best thing is watching them put the Cowboys in their place today." 

Harvey turns to look at Jim, tilts his head. "Since when are you a Rogues fan?" 

"Ever since I was a kid." At the look Harvey gives him, he adds, "Not my fault you didn't ask me about my football allegiances before now." A pause. "Don't tell me you're a Cowboys fan--"

Harvey grins, shakes his head. He's pointedly not given a shit about football since about halfway through his freshman year, but that includes the Cowboys. "I'm just surprised, is all. Thought there wasn't room in your heart for anything but justice." 

Jim elbows him. But then he grins and says, "You know, with the commercial breaks and half time put together, it's the perfect amount of time to go over a new cold case file each week." 

Harvey laughs. "Who says you can't have it all, huh?" It's fucking ridiculous to say. Worse that Jim laughs, and he half believes it. 'Cause Harvey's learned the hard way that in Gotham, you can't have anything you want, anything worth a damn, not for long. Having it all? That's an acid-trip pipe dream. 

But this-- the next two hours, maybe, with Jim talking shit about the Cowboys and Harvey making him laugh and a cold beer in his hand-- this, he can have. 

**Author's Note:**

> Better representation and more puppies on Gotham 2k16.


End file.
